


The Summer Sun Is Hot (And So Are You)

by almostafantasia



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6080181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nobody that Clarke dislikes more than Lexa Woods. Which is why she is beyond annoyed to discover that Lexa has also been invited on a group vacation to the beach this summer. And why she’s even more disgruntled when it appears that the rest of her friends actually quite like Lexa. And possibly most outraged of all when she learns that Lexa looks damn good in a bikini.</p><p>(Currently on Hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To put it simply, Clarke is in a bad mood before they’ve even unloaded the car.

“I hate her. Why does _she_ , of all people, have to be coming on this vacation with us?”

Octavia jumps out of the passenger side with far more enthusiasm than somebody who has just spent six hours in a stuffy car with broken air conditioning is supposed to have.

“Because this beach house belongs to Lincoln’s parents and she’s one of his friends,” Octavia replies, as she walks around to the back of the car to help Clarke haul their bags out of the trunk.

A voice floats out through the now open trunk from where Raven has spent the majority of the journey sprawled across the back seat of Clarke’s battered red car.

“Please tell me she’s not still moaning about Lexa.”

Raven’s head emerges as she sits up, her usually tidy ponytail slightly dishevelled and her cheeks a little flushed in her post-nap state.

“Shut up, Raven,” threatens Clarke, “or I’ll lock you in the car for the next three weeks.”

“Sounds better than listening to you whine about Lexa all vacation,” Raven quips back. “I can’t believe you’re still holding a grudge on her for spilling a drink on you at that party in sophomore year.”

“And how about everything she’s done _since_ then?” complains Clarke. “I mean, Organic Chemistry is her elective and she still gets a higher grade than me on every single paper. She’s just showing off. There’s no need for an economics major to be that good at chemistry.”

“So you hate her because she’s better than you in class?” Raven raises an eyebrow, then opens the car door to step out onto the paving that lines the drive leading up to their new home for the next three weeks.

“Raven, don’t indulge her,” Octavia warns, as she lifts the last of their heavy suitcases out of the trunk of Clarke’s car. “You may have slept for most of the journey but I haven’t, and Clarke’s favourite thing to talk about today has been Lexa. I’ve heard more than enough already.”

Clarke glares at her best friends, then over their shoulders at the second car that pulls up outside the house, her anger bubbling up inside her as she spots the object of her hatred sitting on Lincoln’s backseat.

It’s unfair, Clarke decides, the way that Lexa looks as she steps out of the car. The sunglasses on the top of her head push her curly hair out of her face and all she’s wearing is a simple pair of denim shorts and a flannel shirt that hangs open over a tank top, the sleeves casually rolled up to her elbows. Nobody should look that flawless after a six hour road trip, and Clarke feels embarrassed as she catches sight of her own reflection in the rear window of her car; sweaty red face free of makeup and her hair pushed up into an untidy knot on the top of her head.

It’s useless hoping that Lexa won’t notice her looking like a hot mess though, because despite there being a good bit of distance between them, fate always seems to have something against Clarke, and Lexa chooses that moment to look up from her phone. Clarke considers jumping behind her car for a moment, anything to disguise the fact that she looks a complete state, but it’s like her entire body forgets how to move. She stands there, frozen to the spot, as Lexa nods her head in acknowledgment, then looks back down to the phone in her hand.

Oh _why_ could Clarke not have woken up five minutes earlier and done something with her hair? Clarke decides in that moment that she detests Lexa even more for having her life so much more together than Clarke does.

* * *

Clarke’s bad mood continues even after the final car arrives bringing Bellamy and the other guys, as the group explores the large house, and Clarke’s relief from learning that the bedroom she will be sharing with Raven is on the other side of the house to Lexa and Anya’s shared room is short lived.

“Bunk beds?” she groans. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Shotgun the bottom bunk!” Raven cries out, hobbling across the room as fast as someone with one leg in a homemade brace can do and tossing her backpack onto the lower of the two beds to claim it as her own.

“You can’t shotgun a bed!” protests Clarke, though she is internally conceding defeat because she knows better than to expect that she can win an argument against Raven.

“Tough shit,” shrugs Raven. “I don’t fancy climbing up the ladder to the top bunk at night after a few drinks.”

Raven ducks her head to climb onto the lower bunk, then lies down on top of the covers and closes her eyes, as if she hasn’t just spent the best part of the day asleep in the back of Clarke’s car.

“Neither do I.”

Raven opens one eyes lazily and nods down to her braced leg.

“Bum leg,” she reminds Clarke.

Wheeling her suitcase further into the room and standing it up in the corner, Clarke sighs in defeat and shoots back, “I hate you.”

* * *

Half an hour later, freshly out of the shower and with her hair falling in damp curls down her back, Clarke volunteers herself to accompany Bellamy to the grocery store, if only to find herself a fresh pair of ears to listen to her rants about Lexa. However, just as they’re about to step out of the front door with a list of groceries needed for the entire house and all nine of its inhabitants saved on Clarke’s phone, they are interrupted by Lexa herself.

“Hey, Anya told me you were going out for groceries,” says Lexa, slightly breathless from having just jogged down the stairs to catch them before they leave. “Could you possibly get me some soy milk? Just one carton is fine, I can go out and get some more myself sometime, and I’ll pay you back later.” Lexa pauses, then adds as an explanation, “I’m trying to avoid dairy at the moment, soy milk is much healthier.”

“No problem,” Bellamy replies. “Anything else?”

Lexa contemplates the question for a couple of seconds, then answers with a shake of her head, “No I don’t think so. Lincoln mentioned something about a group meal tonight. I can chip in for that too and even help with the cooking. Do you need somebody else to go with you?”

“We’ll be fine with just the two of us,” Clarke is quick to interject, unable to think of anything worse than spending an hour or two in Lexa’s company with only Bellamy there to stop Clarke from ripping Lexa’s head off her shoulders.

Lexa nods and then in a blink of an eye she is dashing back up the stairs, much to Clarke’s relief. For a moment she had been worried that Lexa might insist on accompanying them just to make sure they bought her milk.

“ _Soy milk is much healthier_ ,” Clarke mimics Lexa a minute later as she straps herself into the passenger seat of Bellamy’s truck. “For fuck’s sake, could she be more insufferable? I could deal with it if she had a medical problem with dairy, but the fact that she’s doing it out of choice is just pretentious.”

“What’s wrong with her wanting to be healthier?” says Bellamy as he climbs into the driver’s side.

“Is Lexa your friend or am I? You’re supposed to be on my side, Bell.”

“I don’t know Lexa at all,” Bellamy shrugs. “But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her wanting to drink soy milk out of choice.”

“Whatever. I don’t like you anymore. Raven can keep you.”

Bellamy flushes slightly in the way that he does whenever Clarke manages to bring up his not-so-secret secret affair with Raven, but it does the desired job of silencing him. Before either of them can say anything else, whether about Lexa or Bellamy and Raven, the back door of the truck opens and an excitable Jasper hops in.

“Octavia says that Lincoln doesn’t know shit and that two crates of beer isn’t enough for what she has planned tonight,” he tells them, leaning through the gap between the two front seats. “She sent me as an extra pair of hands to help carry all the booze.”

“Oh yeah,” Bellamy jokes as he turns the key and the noisy engine of his truck kicks into life, “because your skinny ass is the first thing that pops into my mind when somebody says they want extra manpower.”

And as they fall back into a familiar teasing that makes Clarke’s cheeks ache from all the grinning and laughter, it’s almost enough to forget that Clarke has to put up with living in a house with Lexa Woods for the next three weeks.

* * *

Octavia’s plan to kick off the vacation with a bang is an outrageous success. So much of a success in fact, that Clarke awakens the following morning to find herself spooning Jasper on one of the couches in the living room, with absolutely no recollection of why she ended up here and not in her nice comfy bed upstairs. Or at the very least, in Raven’s nice comfy bed, which is not at the top of the ladder and probably remained otherwise empty, if Clarke knows Raven and Bellamy at all.

Slowly lifting her head so that Jasper’s shaggy hair is no longer obstructing her breathing, Clarke quickly decides that a mouthful of hair might actually be preferable to the piercing jolt of pain that shoots through her temples as her hangover refuses to acknowledge that the early morning sun streaming through the window will make for a very nice day. She extricates herself from where she is wedged between Jasper and the back of the couch with a wince, climbing over the arm so as to not disturb Jasper, who merely rolls over and spreads out into the newly vacated space behind him while mumbling something about waffles in his sleep. Clarke pads across the living room almost silently, deliberately avoiding looking in the mirror that hangs on the wall because she needs a glass of water and some painkillers before she is willing to accept how much of a mess she must look right now.

“Good morning, Clarke.”

So hungover is Clarke that she doesn’t even notice that she’s not the only one in the kitchen until she has already made it halfway across to the fridge. She lets out a little yelp of surprise, then curses her luck because of _course_ it has to be Lexa in here with her. She’s far too hungover to deal with any human interactions, let alone ones with Lexa. Clarke tries to articulate that, but it ends up coming out much ruder than anticipated.

“Go away.”

Lexa, however, doesn’t seem perturbed by Clarke’s grumbling. Instead she takes a bottle of chilled water from the fridge and uses it to fill a glass tumbler, which she holds out in Clarke’s direction along with a box of Advil.

“You’re a lot politer than Anya was ten minutes ago,” she teases. “Well, your intentions are the same, only hers contained a lot more swearing. Here, drink this.”

Clarke accepts Lexa’s offering with an incoherent mumble of thanks, popping two of the tablets from their packet and washing them down with a cool swig of water. It doesn’t do anything to improve Clarke’s hangover or her mood yet, but the chill of the water is enough to rouse her slightly from her sleepy state. To rouse her enough to realise that Lexa is dressed in spandex shorts and a sports bra.

“You’re going out for a run?” Clarke asks, quirking an eyebrow at Lexa’s attire, along with the sports bottle clutched in the brunette’s hand.

“The best cure for a hangover is exercise,” Lexa replies brightly. “Besides, I didn’t drink as much as some last night.”

“How boring.”

Lexa shrugs, then replies, “I had a good night without needing to get drunk.”

Clarke screws up her face and barely manages to stop herself from commenting on how pretentious Lexa sounds by saying that. Instead, she remarks drily, “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the fun in a hangover that stops you from functioning properly the following day?” Lexa is quick to retort. She raises her eyebrows and then, without giving Clarke long enough to fully process her words, continues, “I’ll see you later, Clarke.”

And with that, Lexa takes a quick swig from her water bottle and jogs out of the kitchen, the sound of the front door opening and closing sounding softly in the distance just after she disappears from Clarke’s sight.

* * *

“I can’t believe she went for a run after last night,” Clarke whines to Octavia as the pair of them sit at the kitchen table later that morning, waiting for Lincoln to cook them both breakfast.

Octavia, who seems to be in an even worse state than Clarke after apparently spending most of the night leaning over a toilet being sick whilst Lincoln held her hair out of the way, lifts her head from where she has been resting it against the table.

“Clarke, I love you,” says Octavia, “but you’re mistaking me for somebody who cares. I already have a headache without having to listen to you complain about Lexa again.”

Pouting, Clarke turns her head to look out of the glass doors leading to the patio, frowning as she catches sight of Lexa, newly returned from her run with pink-tinged cheeks and a fresh sheen of sweat on her face, chatting animatedly with Monty out by the pool. She scowls, then grunts her thanks as Lincoln puts a plate heavily laden with pancakes down before her. Hating Lexa can wait until she has a full stomach.

* * *

It’s no secret that Lexa Woods is gay. In fact, reason number fourteen why Clarke can’t stand Lexa is because of that one time that she came back from using the bathroom in a nightclub to discover the girl that she had been buying drinks for and dancing with was making out with Lexa in the middle of the dance floor. Clarke has known for a while that Lexa is attracted to girls. She just never really understood why girls would be attracted to Lexa.

That is, until Lexa steps out onto the patio that surrounds the swimming pool in just a skimpy black bikini.

“Holy shit.”

At Clarke’s soft exclamation, Octavia lifts her head from where she has been lying face down on the sun lounger beside Clarke’s, using a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she squints across questioningly.

“Holy shit, it’s hot,” Clarke improvises, grateful for the dark lenses of her sunglasses that mean Octavia can’t see that Clarke is actually watching Lexa out of the corner of her eye.

“You’ve only just noticed?” teases Octavia.

Clarke rolls her eyes at Octavia, and then remembers that her sunglasses hide the gesture from Octavia and decides to give her best friend the middle finger as a visual alternative.

“Shut up. I think I’m sweating in places that I didn’t know could sweat.”

Wrinkling up her face, Octavia cries out, “Ew!” and then lays her head back down onto her towel, eyes closed once more.

Turning her eyes away from the bikini-clad Lexa, Clarke laughs in an attempt to pass her previous words off as a joke, but even as she does so she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. There was much truth to the statement – with the sun at its peak high in the sky and bearing down on them with a ferocity that Clarke isn’t used to back home in DC, she _does_ feel like there’s sweat everywhere. It beads on her forehead, it trickles uncomfortably slowly down her arms, and she can feel it dampening the towel that she lies on. Octavia is right, it’s kind of gross really, and Clarke half expects that when she stands up later it will be to reveal a damp Clarke shaped imprint on the lounger.

She’s interrupted from her reluctant acceptance of her own bodily functions by a voice, a familiar voice that sends a wave of dread tingling down Clarke’s spine before she even has a chance to look up and see who it is.

“You look like you’re burning up a little, Clarke. Do you want to borrow my sunscreen?”

It’s Lexa. Of _course_ it’s Lexa, using exactly the same _I’m better than you_ tone of voice that she used in class that one time last year when she tapped Clarke on the shoulder from the row behind just to tell her that she was wearing her sweater inside out. Clarke hates it. Clarke hates _her_.

Fighting back a scowl, Clarke forces a smile onto her face and replies, “No thanks. I have my own.”

Lexa nods and then walks away, much to Clarke’s relief. She barely waits for Lexa to move out of earshot before she turns to Octavia.

“Oh my God, how rude was that?”

Octavia opens one eye lazily, and says expressionlessly, “She offered you her sunscreen. How is that rude?”

“She told me that I look sunburnt,” Clarke replies indignantly. “ _That’s_ rude.”

Octavia shakes her head as much as she can whilst lying on her front and closes her eyes once again.

“Whatever you say, Clarke.”

Clarke scowls in irritation at her best friend’s complete lack of support, but she doesn’t get the chance to voice her thoughts aloud because Bellamy wanders over to them, wearing just a pair of swimming shorts that are an obtrusive shade of neon orange. He smiles in greeting, then says, “Uh Clarke, you’re looking a little pink here.”

He gestures to his own upper chest area, clearly feeling a little bit awkward at having to admit that he’s been looking at Clarke’s chest, and Clarke glances down to see that she is indeed turning slightly pink around the upper edge of her bikini top.

“Shut up, Bellamy,” Clarke tells him, not even bothering to glance across at Octavia, who she already knows will be smirking in triumph, though she does reach under her lounger for the bottle of sunblock and starts applying it liberally to the exposed skin.

“Bellamy, could you get me a glass of water please?” Raven calls out from the far end of the swimming pool, where she is clinging onto the side having just paddled up and down for a few lengths. “And my towel too? I left it on my bed. Thanks, you’re a star.”

As Bellamy eagerly jogs back into the house to fulfil Raven’s request, Octavia glances across at Clarke with one raised eyebrow and mutters so softly that the words stay between the two of them, “Does she realise that he’s completely in love with her?”

Clarke keeps her eyes trained on Raven, observing her friend as she heaves herself out of the water and sits on the edge of the pool with her legs dangling in the water. Raven is the most stubborn person that Clarke knows and they have had many an argument about what Raven is and isn’t capable of pushing herself to do with only one fully functioning leg. She insists on doing everything she can herself, and a few things that she can’t too, unwilling to take any of her friends up on their offers to make things easier for her. Bellamy, however, is the only exception. It’s not that Raven exploits him and the extra soft spot that he’s had for her since they started sleeping together, but that he’s the only one that she’s willing to admit to that she can’t do it all herself. Which for Raven is _huge_.

And if Octavia, who has remained blissfully in the dark about one of her best friends sleeping with her brother on and off for the better part of the last year, has picked up on the obvious difference between Raven’s relationship with Bellamy compared to everybody else, it really must be something serious.

“No,” Clarke answers honestly, as Bellamy returns from inside, Raven’s towel flung over his shoulder and a glass of ice cold water in his hand, “but I don’t think that he does either.”

Clarke makes a mental note to bring it up with one or both of them later.

* * *

It keeps Clarke up that night. Not specifically thoughts about Raven and Bellamy, because that would be weird, but the realisation that if Raven and Bellamy ever manage to get their act together and realise that they’d work as more than just friends with benefits it will push another two people in Clarke’s life into a pair.

It’s only the second day of this vacation but already Clarke is feeling like a bit of a spare wheel. Octavia has Lincoln, Raven and Bellamy have whatever is going on between them, and Jasper and Monty, and Anya and Lexa make two pairs of almost inseparable best friends. And Clarke has, well _nobody_. Sure, she gets on well with them all bar Lexa, but she realises that this vacation could quite easily go ahead without her and nobody would miss her too much.

It’s enough to stop her from sleeping.

She’s been tossing and turning for an hour before Raven’s muffled voice finally drifts up from the lower bunk.

“If you’re going to fidget all night, could you go and do it somewhere else?”

Clarke rolls onto her back with a heavy sigh and pushes herself up into a seated position, then swings her legs over the side of the bed at the gap in the railing and lets herself drop to the floor below with a loud thump.

“Hey, I was kidding,” Raven calls out across the dark bedroom. “Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

“Thanks, but no. I think I’ll go and get some fresh air.”

Clarke slips her feet into her flip flops and pulls an oversized college hoodie over her head before grabbing a blanket, her sketchbook and a tin of pencils, her go-to form of therapy whenever she’s feeling stressed, then leaves the bedroom in silence.

* * *

She wakes up the following morning out by the pool as the sun rises, the blanket draped across her lap and her sketchpad and a pencil still clutched loosely in her hands. Clarke rubs at her bleary eyes and stretches out on the lounger, wincing at the ache in her back that no doubt comes from falling asleep on the hard plastic chair rather than her nice comfy bed.

The page in front of her is full of a vague sketch from the night before; a dark treeline with the moon rising behind it, casting a rippling glow on the water of the pool in front of Clarke. It’s far from Clarke’s best work, messy and incomplete, and looking at it gives Clarke the same feeling of dissatisfaction that she seems to associate with life in general right now.

Clarke gets to her feet sleepily, draping the blanket over her shoulder like a cape and clutching the sketchbook to her chest as she traipses back into the silent house, hoping that maybe there’s a chance she can get a couple more hours of sleep in her bed before Raven and the rest of the house wakes up.

* * *

They go out that night, a couple of drinks in a quiet little indie bar that Bellamy picked out escalating very quickly into a full-blown bar crawl that sees the nine of them slowly making their way along the high street of the main road in the nearby town, steadily getting drunker at each stop.

Clarke tries to throw herself into it at first. She joins in with Octavia’s petty college drinking games in the second bar, then takes Raven up on her offer of a round of shots in the third, but by the time they reach the fourth, Clarke has given up on trying not to be grumpy and lets herself be miserable. She finishes her second drink in this bar before most of them have even emptied their first glass, and when Octavia decides that it’s time for the group to start dancing, Clarke doesn’t let herself get dragged into the throng of pulsing bodies, instead settling herself onto a stool at the bar and ordering herself a beer.

She tries to pretend that she doesn’t know why she’s sad, but it’s useless. Not when Raven and Bellamy are doing an awful job of keeping their hands off each other, not when the only reason Octavia hasn’t noticed her brother groping her best friend is because she’s currently attached to Lincoln at the mouth, not when Jasper is smiling at a message from Maya on his phone and Anya is flirting with one of the bartenders and Clarke feels so terribly, overwhelmingly alone.

She drinks, swallowing half the contents of the bottle in her hands in one go, hoping that alcohol will numb her emotions before it gets too much.

There’s only one reason that could put Clarke in a worse mood than she’s already in, and that reason chooses that exact moment to perch on the stool next to Clarke’s, green eyes hazy with alcohol and high cheekbones decorated with a rosy flush.

“Hey,” Lexa says, resting her elbows on top of the bar as she fishes around in her purse for the change to buy herself a drink.

“What?” grunts Clarke.

Lexa startles, then recomposes herself, leaning across the bar to shout her order at the bartender over the loud music that surrounds them. When the bartender nods and starts pouring her drink, Lexa returns her attention to Clarke.

“I was just being friendly,” Lexa shrugs.

“I don’t like you,” Clarke says bluntly, and she wonders how much of it is the alcohol talking and how much is almost a week’s worth of frustration finally venting out of her system.

There’s a brief pause, a silence filled with the dull thump of music around them, and then Lexa says, “I know.”

Taking a heavy swig from the bottle in her hand, Clarke snaps, “Then piss off.”

Lexa remains seated beside Clarke for just a moment longer, then gets to her feet, picks up her drink and leaves with nothing but a lingering stare. Clarke winces at the taste of the alcohol in her mouth. She doesn’t even like beer that much.


	2. Chapter 2

The seventh night of the vacation once again finds Clarke out by the pool after everybody else has gone to bed, a blanket covering her legs and her sketchpad propped up against her knees. She starts a new sketch, roughly shading ripples of water in the moonlight, but something about the drawing just doesn’t look right, something about the lighting just isn’t translating from the scene in front of her onto the page.

The first attempt gets ripped from the sketchpad and tossed aside in a little scrunched up ball within mere minutes, and the second lasts longer, though barely. But when the third attempt starts to go awry too, Clarke’s frustration gets the better of her.

“For fuck’s sake!” Clarke lashes out at nothing in particular.

“Clarke?”

Clarke’s head snaps up at the intruding voice, and she almost hurls her sketchbook into the swimming pool in front of her when she realises that Lexa has just emerged from the house. Wearing a one-piece bathing suit and with a towel draped over her left arm, there isn’t really a question about what Lexa is out here to do. It’s more of a question of _why_ she’s decided to go for a midnight swim at exactly the same time that Clarke is out here drawing by the pool.

“Do you ever sleep?” Clarke asks with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Lexa frowns as she slides the glass door at the back of the house closed behind her, before crossing the patio towards Clarke.

“You wake up early in the morning to run. You go for late night swims. Do you ever sleep?”

Lexa drops her towel down onto a nearby lounger and laughs.

“I occasionally do one or the other, never both.”

Clarke still rolls her eyes at Lexa, then shrugs, “Octavia took me to the gym with her once.”

“And?” Lexa asks with an expectant look in her eyes.

“And her personal trainer was hot. That’s the only reason I’d consider saying yes if she asked me to go again.”

Lexa shakes her head as she walks away from Clarke and stands on the side of the swimming pool, her toes curling over the edge. She takes one final glance at Clarke and asks, “You don’t mind me swimming while you’re out here do you?”

Not giving Clarke enough time to answer, Lexa jumps into the pool with a splash, disappearing beneath the rippling surface before Clarke can open her mouth to say that yes, she _does_ mind. Clarke stares at the pool slightly indignantly, possibly more annoyed that Lexa jumped in without waiting for an answer than the fact that she is out here disturbing Clarke’s quiet drawing time.

Clarke watches as Lexa’s head breaks the surface of the water and she immediately settles into a confident stroke towards the opposite end of the pool. She’s clearly a strong swimmer, using her arms to drag herself forward through the water with a careful precision and barely leaving a splash behind her as she kicks. Clarke is impressed and just about ready to mentally concede that Lexa is actually quite good at swimming, but then Lexa goes and ruins Clarke’s mood when she reaches the far end, doing a little flip in the water and pushing off the wall in a move that is both powerful and professional looking, rather than just touching the wall and turning.

“Show off,” Clarke mutters under her breath, shaking her head grumpily and reaching for her pencils to continue with her sketches.

* * *

Lexa swims for over half an hour, propelling herself from one end of the pool to the other and then back again, before she finally paddles over to the edge of the pool and lifts herself out of the water in a single rippling movement. The muscles in her arms tense as she pushes herself up and the way that her damp hair shimmers under the moon as she releases it from its ponytail moments later makes Clarke think of a mermaid, and her hand itches to reach out for her pencils and to do a sketch of Lexa as such, her legs replaced with a powerful tail covered in twinkling scales.

The artistic side of her brain loves the idea. The part of her brain that finds something to be irritated about in everything that Lexa does scolds the artistic side for enjoying staring at the other girl.

“So how is the drawing going?” Lexa asks, sitting down on the side of the pool with her legs dangling over the edge, feet floating in the water out in front of her, which does nothing but enhance the mermaid version of Lexa that Clarke is trying to permanently banish from her imagination.

“It’s alright,” Clarke shrugs.

“May I take a look?”

Clarke hesitates for a moment, glancing down at the page that is filled with not much more than little doodles of Lexa; her arms raised out of the water as she swims, a couple of sketches of the brunette’s profile, a detailed picture of the wet tendrils of hair dripping around her face. It’s only now that she feels a little embarrassed about the fact that Lexa has been the subject of everything she has drawn in the last forty minutes, but with Lexa looking expectantly up at her from the poolside, Clarke finds it difficult to say no.

Without saying a word, Clarke flips her sketchbook around and holds it out for Lexa to take a look. Her teeth dig into her lower lip in anticipation as she watches the surprise wash over the brunette’s face.

“You drew me?”

Grateful that the light of the moon is not enough to alert Lexa to the blush that creeps onto her cheeks, Clarke shrugs and answers, “Well you were kind of in the way.”

“It’s good,” Lexa acknowledges with a nod. “It’s _flattering_.” Her eyes flicker up from the sketchpad to look Clarke in the eye and she smiles slightly in amusement before adding, “You haven’t drawn me as some kind of demon, which is a little bit of a surprise.”

Clarke laughs softly, then suggests, “I can do one like that if you want.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Lexa replies drily.

Lexa’s attention shifts away from Clarke’s drawings of her and Clarke flips the sketchpad shut, resting it on her legs. She wonders if maybe she should get up and leave, return to the warmth of her own bed and hope that her hour of drawing has done enough to clear her mind, but there’s something unexplainable that is compelling her to stay where she is, despite the present company.

Speaking of the company, Lexa stays where she is too, her legs floating absently in the water in front of her, making no indication that she is going to get to her feet and dry herself off.

“Why are you so okay about the fact that I don’t like you?” Clarke blurts out.

Lexa looks back up at Clarke and answers without any hesitation, “Because you’re just one person who doesn’t really know me at all, so no offence, but your opinion doesn’t really matter to me.”

Impressed with Lexa’s honesty, Clarke challenges, “Give me a reason why I should change my opinion about you.”

Lexa considers Clarke’s question for a few seconds, and then replies thoughtfully, “Because despite the fact that you’re a complete bitch to me for no reason, I like you.”

“Seriously?” gapes Clarke, having not expected to get a response even a little bit close to that one.

“Yes,” Lexa nods in earnest. “You have flaws, namely your ability to hold grudges for an insanely long time, but you’re smart, funny and you seem like a good person.”

Clarke stares at Lexa in slight disbelief then groans, “God, the fact that you like me makes me hate you even more.”

“I could give you another reason to like me,” shrugs Lexa.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, but you’d have to sit on the side of the pool with me.”

“What, so you can push me in and drown me?” teases Clarke.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I had planned,” Lexa replies sarcastically, tilting her head to the side. She pats the tiled floor beside her and raises and expectant eyebrow at Clarke, before asking, “So, are you joining me?”

Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa, trying to establish what the other girl’s motive is, but Lexa’s face remains impassive. She lets her eyes drop to the tiles where Lexa is asking her to sit, cold and slightly wet from being splashed by Lexa’s earlier swimming and not at all comfortable looking, and yet after a few moments of thought, Clarke feels the inexplicable urge to concede with a shrug.

“Okay, but I swear to God if you push me in…”

Clarke stands up, leaving her sketchpad and pencils piled neatly on the newly vacated lounger, and prowls the three steps it takes for her to reach the edge of the pool. She doesn’t drop to the floor exactly where Lexa’s hand had suggested, but rather about a foot further away from Lexa, wary of the other girl’s intentions. The tiles are colder than Clarke expected, the little patterned bumps and ridges not making it a very comfortable seat at all. And then there’s the cold pool water that immediately seeps into the material of Clarke’s sleep shorts.

“Ugh, my shorts are getting wet!”

Without even a hint of shame, Lexa responds, “You could always just take them off.”

Her mouth dropping open and her eyes narrowed, Clarke asks, “Are you _hitting_ on me, Lexa?”

A glint of mischief in her eyes, Lexa answers coolly, “I _did_ say that I was going to give you another reason to like me.”

Unsure whether Lexa’s last few comments are merely jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood between them or if there is any truth behind her words, Clarke wonders if she should feel awkward about the idea of somebody that she hates even implying that they find her attractive. But she remembers that she’s not entirely innocent herself, having been sneaking glances at the brunette over the last week when nobody else is looking, and realises that maybe the idea of Lexa looking at her in the same way isn’t entirely unwelcome at all.

In an entirely physical way, of _course_.

“Fuck, its cold!” exclaims Clarke, as she slides her legs into the water and kicks them gently, watching the ripples move out across the rest of the pool.

“You’ll get used to it,” Lexa shrugs. “So reason number two for you to like me is that I’m not going to drown you.” Clarke glances across at Lexa and rolls her eyes but Lexa ignores her and continues, “And reason number three…”

It’s hard to tell in under the moonlight, but the look in Lexa’s eyes is unlike any Clarke has seen before, to the extent that Clarke almost forgets that they are Lexa’s eyes she is looking into. A soft edge to the dark pupils makes Lexa seem more human than normal, yet the hard resilience that Clarke’s brain usually responds to with thoughts of _oh my god what a bitch_ is still there but in a way that is hauntingly unrecognisable. It’s full of curiosity and vulnerability and … and _something_ else.

Completely caught up in trying to figure out what the look that Lexa is giving her means, Clarke doesn’t even notice that Lexa has slowly shuffled along the side of the pool to shorten the gap between them until Lexa speaks and the words are closer than she expects.

“Tell me if this isn’t okay.”

Clarke startles slightly at the realisation that Lexa is close enough to touch her and her breath momentarily catches in her throat.

“If what isn’t okay?” Clarke tentatively asks.

“This,” replies Lexa, reaching out a hand and resting it gently on Clarke’s thigh. The touch is so light that Clarke shouldn’t really be able to feel it, except that Lexa’s skin feels as though it is scalding Clarke’s, even through the cotton material of Clarke’s shorts.

Clarke’s brain goes momentarily into overload and she lets out a little gasp, closing her eyes as she tries to get used to the feeling of Lexa being so close.

“Is it okay?” Lexa asks again.

Clarke opens her eyes again and tries to remember how to speak.

“I … uh…” Clarke stammers.

“Let me rephrase,” Lexa interrupts Clarke’s attempt to form words. “Is it not _not_ okay?”

Clarke frowns, trying to make sense of the double negative, but Lexa’s close proximity to her is somehow managing to stall all of her cognitive processes, leaving her brain nothing but a helpless puddle of mush inside her skull.

“I … _Lexa_.”

Clarke may not be able to answer the question, but her pleading tone as she practically whines the other girl’s name is clearly enough for Lexa, who smiles triumphantly, and then leans in for the kiss that Clarke doesn’t want to admit that she has known was coming for a few minutes.

There’s just something about hating somebody’s guts that translates into great sexual chemistry. Lexa’s lips barely have to graze hers for Clarke to reach this conclusion. Lexa kisses far too well for somebody that Clarke is supposed to hate and that only makes Clarke dislike her even more. A tiny part of her brain wills Lexa to do something wrong, for one of her touches not to be so completely exquisite, because surely the girl can’t be perfect at everything. But Lexa’s hand remains firm on Clarke’s thigh, the other one moving up to rest at Clarke’s waist while her lips apply just the right amount of pressure to cause a tiny moan to slip from Clarke’s mouth. Clarke feels as though she is being pulled in two opposite directions, divided in ways that she can’t even begin to comprehend as her brain fights between wanting to push Lexa away and pull her closer.

Clarke has to remind herself momentarily, in the midst of hot kisses that seem to consume her entire being, that this is _Lexa_ that is kissing her. Lexa, who she hates with every fibre of her being, who she hates more than anybody else in the world.

“But … but I _hate_ you,” Clarke attempts to reason between kisses.

“Of course you do.”

Lexa’s words are clearly intended just to shut Clarke up and the evident refusal to acknowledge that Clarke is speaking honestly when she tells Lexa that she hates her just infuriates Clarke even more. She knows that she should push Lexa away, that she should yell at Lexa for taking advantage of her when her guard is down but somehow that just doesn’t feel right. Being taken advantage of doesn’t feel this good, and Clarke can’t bring herself to stop. There will be time to yell at Lexa later.

 _This is Lexa_ , Clarke tries to remind herself. _Lexa’s lips. Lexa’s hands. Lexa. And you hate her_.

It doesn’t work. If anything, Clarke kisses back harder, then nips suddenly, pulling Lexa’s bottom lip between her teeth and running her tongue over it. When she releases it, Lexa gasps into her mouth and the fingers at Clarke’s waist claw at the soft flesh there through Clarke’s top.

“Tell me to stop,” Lexa mumbles breathlessly against Clarke’s lips.

Even as she speaks, Lexa moves the hand from Clarke’s thigh to her abdomen, tracing teasing circles over Clarke’s t-shirt with the backs of fingers that threaten to go lower. Clarke rests her forehead against Lexa’s and closes her eyes, trying to focus on nothing more than the steady in and out of her own breathing, waiting for enough oxygen to pass through to her brain to make a coherent thought.

“Tell me to stop, Clarke,” Lexa says again, more clearly this time, her fingers playing with the hem of Clarke’s top.

Clarke pushes her hips forward in an attempt to nudge her pelvis against Lexa’s wrist, then gasps, “Don’t stop.”

Lexa smiles triumphantly against Clarke’s lips and sends her hand even lower, toying with the elastic at the top of Clarke’s shorts.

“Can you be quiet?” she asks, dipping her fingers below the waistband of both the shorts and the underwear beneath, and gliding her fingertips through Clarke’s wetness.

“Depends how good you are … mmm, oh god. No, I don’t think I can. Mmm … right _there_ …”

Lexa’s touch ignites a fire deep within the pits of Clarke’s abdomen, a small crackling flame that explodes up into an inferno that is hard to keep under control. It’s almost embarrassing how desperately she cants her hips forwards, seeking out more of Lexa, but the indescribable feeling of Lexa’s fingers rubbing a skilful path through her wetness leaves little room for Clarke to feel any shame.

“Lexa,” gasps Clarke, throwing her head back as Lexa nuzzles her face into Clarke’s neck, her hand pushing further into Clarke’s underwear until the tip of her finger teases Clarke’s entrance. “Lexa … _yes_!”

Lexa lifts her head from Clarke’s neck and shushes her, even as she elicits another unintelligible noise of pleasure from Clarke as she pushes her finger inside to the second knuckle.

“Shh, you’ll wake up the whole house!”

Clarke turns her head slightly to look up at the darkened house, where the net curtain of her own bedroom billows slightly in the open window.

“Raven is asleep,” Clarke tells Lexa, remembering the soft snores of the other girl when Clarke silently left their room an hour ago.

“But she won’t be for much longer if you don’t shut up.”

Clarke looks at Lexa with a hint of a challenge in her eye and says, “So shut me up then.”

Lexa’s lips are on Clarke’s almost before Clarke has finished speaking, and Clarke lets out another moan to prove her point, this time muffled by Lexa’s mouth. She reaches up a hand and tangles it into Lexa’s wet hair, clawing at the brunette’s scalp to keep them fused at the lips. Her other hand grips at the edge of the pool with a superhuman strength, worried that the way that Lexa’s fingers work her gradually closer and closer to the edge of reality will have her toppling into the pool.

“Does this feel good?”

Clarke almost wonders why Lexa asks the question, mumbled against Clarke’s lips, when the way that Clarke is barely managing to keep control of the noises coming out of her mouth must clearly give her the answer, but she nods anyway, a desperate affirmation that she wants more of this.

“Yes,” she gasps out, as Lexa’s fingers thrust roughly inside her, despite the awkward angle.

“Tell me what you want,” Lexa orders, and Clarke wonders how Lexa’s voice can be so soft and yet still manage to leave Clarke completely at her mercy at the same time.

“This … just there … _oh_!”

Lexa’s fingers do something (Clarke isn’t entirely sure what, but then does it really matter, when it feels so good?) and then Clarke’s body goes tense for just a brief moment, before she feels like she could be soaring high above the earth. She clings to Lexa with every bit of strength that she can, the arm that she has firmly wrapped around Lexa’s neck is possibly the only thing stopping her from sliding down into the pool and slipping beneath the water as she comes with Lexa’s name on her lips.

Clarke is aware of nothing but her own heavy breathing and Lexa’s lips brushing against the delicate skin below her ear as Lexa’s hand slowly slips out of Clarke’s shorts. Her eyes remain closed as she waits for her heartrate to slow down to something resembling normal.

“So how was that for another reason to like me?” Lexa murmurs softly.

Clarke’s eyes snap open as she is hit with the enormity of what they have just done.

“No,” she groans out. “I’m supposed to hate you.”

Lexa’s eyes widen as she realises that the old Clarke is back, the one who dislikes her resolutely and undeniably. She leans back, waiting for Clarke to say something else, worry etched on her face. Her oh-so-pretty…

_No!_

Clarke gets to her feet hurriedly, taking a couple of steps away from Lexa and shaking her head.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Clarke says, almost more to herself than to Lexa.

“Clarke…”

“No!” Clarke interrupts. “This shouldn’t have happened. We shouldn’t have done that.” Clarke closes her eyes for just a second, inhaling deeply to try and return some of the oxygen to her brain that seems to have vacated her during the lapse of judgement that led to Lexa’s hand finding its way into her shorts just moments ago. “You can’t tell anyone we did this.”

“I won’t.”

“I swear to god, if you do…”

“I said I won’t, okay?” Lexa assures her. “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke opens her mouth to apologise for snapping, but then her eyes meet Lexa’s again, full of sadness but not even a hint of remorse, and she decides against it.

“Goodnight Lexa,” she says, picking up the discarded sketchpad and pencils, before sweeping into the house without another look behind her, leaving Lexa alone on the side of the pool.

* * *

 

She cries herself to sleep, muffled sobs into the soft feather pillow so as to not disturb a sleeping Raven on the lower bunk, and knows that the ache in her chest will probably still be there in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke stays in bed late the following day. She hears Raven get up at about nine and pretends to be asleep, curled up facing the wall with the sheets pulled up high over her shoulders, as Raven potters around the room getting ready for the day.

Raven leaves the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her as she goes, and Clarke rolls over in bed, nudging the pillow so that it’s in a more comfortable position and then attempts to go back to sleep.

An attempt is all that it is though, because sleep turns out to be difficult to come by in a house with eight other people gradually rising and starting their day. Clarke stares out at the blank wall across the room, listening to the sounds of the shower starting and plates clattering downstairs and eventually the faint chatter of voices through the open window from down by the pool.

The pool is exactly the problem though. While the prospect of bumping into Lexa today doesn’t exactly thrill Clarke, it also doesn’t bother her too much because she’s already so well-practised in the art of completely disregarding the brunette’s presence. The reason why Clarke is so reluctant to get out of bed has more to do with the fact that she isn’t sure that she can sunbathe mere feet from where she let Lexa get her off a few hours ago without turning a horrific shade of lobster red.

She has to get up eventually though, when Octavia pushes her way into the bedroom shortly before midday and announces that Clarke has exactly half an hour to get her ass downstairs or she’ll miss an outing to a little market in the nearby coastal village. Clarke grumbles and moans as she clambers down from her bunk and starts to rummage through her clothes for a clean top, but the thought of getting out of the house is certainly more appealing than staying in and wallowing in her own self-pity.

* * *

 

They amble down to the beachfront and find a quaint little café with a veranda looking out to the ocean to have some lunch. Clarke, through a little craftiness and a lot of determination, manages to snag a seat at the opposite end of the table to Lexa so that she doesn’t so much have to even acknowledge the girl’s presence, let alone try to engage her in polite conversation.

She does get distracted though, when she glances across shortly after the waitress brings them their desserts, to find Lexa licking the ice cream in a way that has Clarke reminded of what else Lexa’s mouth is good at, and she blushes at the memory of Lexa mumbling words of encouragement into the warm skin of Clarke’s neck as her fingers work Clarke up to oblivion.

“You okay there, Clarke?” Monty frowns from the seat opposite Clarke. “You’re looking a little red.”

“It’s hot,” Clarke attempts to excuse herself casually, reaching for her napkin and using it to fan herself.

It _is_ hot, but Clarke has a strange feeling that it has nothing to do with the sun beating down on the roof of the veranda above them.

* * *

 

The market is bustling with activity, tens of canvas marquees erected along the boardwalk that overlooks the beach, vendors selling everything from fresh fruit to souvenir trinkets. Clarke ambles through the crowd purposelessly, pausing every so often to take a closer look at some of the goods, but otherwise merely enjoying the sun and the bright touristy atmosphere.

“Clarke, are you feeling okay?” Octavia asks as Clarke stops at the fishmonger’s stall where she and Lincoln are currently buying freshly caught fish for tonight’s dinner.

“Yes,” frowns Clarke. “Why?”

Octavia shrugs, then says, “It’s three in the afternoon and I haven’t heard you complain about Lexa once today.”

Clarke feels herself blush, though her cheeks are already quite pink from the heat of the sun.

“I’m just tired, that’s all,” Clarke replies stiffly. “She’s still a bitch.”

A very cute bitch, who just happens to have very talented fingers and a knack for rendering a girl breathless with just a simple kiss.

Clarke shakes her head in an attempt to rid her mind of the memories from the night before, and dawdles over to a stall displaying handwoven bracelets so as to evade Octavia and her curiosity.

“Tired, huh?”

Clarke actually shivers at the familiar voice, and in her peripheral vision she sees a hand snake out to touch one of the bracelets, fingers tracing a thread of dark leather as it weaves intricately in and out of the others. Clarke glances up, blushing at the memory of what those fingers can do, only to meet Lexa’s amused gaze.

Scowling at the fact that Lexa heard every word that she said to Octavia, Clarke snaps, “Go away, Lexa.”

Clarke marches back over to the fish stall and says to Octavia, loud enough that Lexa is able to hear her, “Oh my god, Lexa is _so_ annoying…”

* * *

 

When they return to the house, Clarke drops her few small purchases off in her room and then makes her way back downstairs into the kitchen. She nods a greeting to Bellamy, before her eyes fall on Lexa, who is standing by the open fridge door, drinking a smoothie from a bottle. Drinking a smoothie from a bottle that is clearly labelled _Clarke’s smoothie, NOT YOURS!_ on the outside in thick sharpie.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Clarke exclaims, marching across the kitchen and snatching the bottle out of Lexa’s hand. She replaces the lid and puts it back in the door of the fridge, vaguely aware of the irritated huff that Bellamy lets out as he leaves the pair of them alone in the kitchen, squabbling one again like children fifteen years their junior.

“Is it?” Lexa feigns innocence. “I had no idea.”

She makes to push past Clarke and leave the kitchen, but Clarke’s fingers close around her wrist, preventing her from going anywhere.

“What the hell are you playing at?” hisses Clarke.

Lexa glares at Clarke, then answers, “We wouldn’t want your friends to think you’ve stopped hating me, would we?”

“Who says I’ve stopped hating you?” Clarke snaps back.

Lexa hesitates, her eyes widening slightly in surprise, but she only falters momentarily before her face returns to its usual impassive stare.

“Touché.”

Clarke lets out a heavy sigh of disapproval and releases Lexa’s wrist, storming out of the kitchen and through the open doors out onto the patio outside. As she flops down into the chair beside Raven, she complains slightly louder than necessary so that everybody in the vicinity can hear her outrage, “Stupid bitch drank my smoothie.”

* * *

 

It continues.

It seems to Clarke that now Lexa has figured out that it will only take the tiniest thing for Clarke to get incredibly vocal about her dislike for Lexa, she starts deliberately trying to get a rise out of her. On the day after the smoothie incident Clarke finds her bottle of suntan lotion empty and discarded while Lexa watches with a smirk from a distance, and the day after that sees Clarke get out of the swimming pool only to find that Lexa has not only taken her sunlounger, but has also tossed Clarke’s towel aside into a little puddle of water on the side of the pool.

“Why are you doing this?” Clarke demands, when the two of them once again find themselves alone in the kitchen.

Lexa merely shrugs nonchalantly and replies, “I’m trying to keep things normal between us. I’m just giving you things to complain to your friends about. Also you’re hot when you’re angry.”

Clarke grinds her back teeth together in an attempt to restrain herself from crying out and calling Lexa several very rude names. But the slightly smug air to Lexa’s tone also has another effect on Clarke, when she remembers how proud of herself Lexa had looked at reducing Clarke to a whimpering mess out by the pool three nights ago.

 _Don’t do it_ , Clarke tries to tell herself. _Don’t give in. This is Lexa, you hate her._

Inevitably, when Lexa quirks a single eyebrow at her, Clarke caves.

“Right now my only complaint is that we’ve been sharing a house for the last week and a half and you’ve only gotten me off once. I think that’s quite rude of you.”

Lexa’s expression passes through momentary surprise, then a mischievous little smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. She takes a couple of steps back, craning her neck to look out of the window at the back yard, then returns her attention to Clarke.

“Raven is out by the pool and her brace is off. Meet me in your room in five minutes. We should have time if we’re quick.”

Clarke manages to wait maybe forty five seconds after Lexa leaves the kitchen before she can’t help but follow the brunette upstairs.

* * *

 

It’s almost embarrassingly quick, Clarke sprawled out on Raven’s lower bunk bed with her shorts and underwear discarded somewhere in the room, Lexa kneeling between her spread legs as her tongue works Clarke up to an orgasm in near record speed. Clarke doesn’t want to admit to herself that it’s because Lexa is good (though that certainly will have helped), but that the last few days of heated arguments and sexually charged glares already has her worked up to a point where she doesn’t need much stimulation at all before she’s crying out, one hand clawing at Lexa’s scalp.

Lexa is only too keen to point out how brief the encounter is.

“That didn’t take long,” she acknowledges, as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Shut up,” Clarke retorts, though the harsh edge that she usually uses to reprimand Lexa is strangely absent in her post-orgasmic haze. Pushing herself up onto her elbows and closing her legs, she says, “Come here, I’ll do you now.”

Lexa shakes her head.

“It’s fine. We should get back out there before the others start wondering where we are.”

Clarke tries to ignore the little feeling of disappointment that comes with the realisation that Lexa isn’t going to let her touch her.

“Next time then?” she asks hopefully.

“There’s going to be a next time?” Lexa’s eyes widen with the kind of hope that Clarke expects is mirrored on her own face, and she tries to ignore what this means.

Clarke blushes and looks to the floor, muttering softly, “Well I … I don’t exactly hate it when you get me off…”

“Oh _wow_ , Clarke, high praise indeed!”

“Shut up!” Clarke kicks Lexa softly with one of her feet. “I just mean that maybe we can make some kind of arrangement that involves hooking up occasionally on the sly.”

Lexa pauses, then with her expression as deadpan as ever, replies, “Sure. I can agree to that.”

Clarke wonders when things changed, or perhaps rather more importantly _why_ things changed, for her to go from hating Lexa’s guts to offering to voluntarily spend time in the other girl’s company, even if that time will most definitely not be spent talking. _Nothing has changed,_ a part of Clarke’s brain screams, _you still hate her_.

“Just sex,” Clarke confirms. “Our little secret.”

“Our little secret,” nods Lexa.

* * *

 

Clarke gets her chance to return the favour later that day, after a couple of drinks with dinner descends into riotous drinking games and mayhem. Outright ignoring each other slowly shifts into lingering gazes from across the room, and when Lexa shoots her a sly wink when nobody else is looking, Clarke realises that she needs this party to wrap up soon or she won’t be held accountable for the way that she is likely to propel herself straight across into Lexa’s lap.

It dissipates at around two in the morning, with Bellamy being the first to make his excuses and disappear up to bed, and the others following soon after. Clarke finds herself in the bathroom with Lexa and Anya, perched on the edge of the bathtub as she vigorously brushes her teeth, waiting for Anya to finish washing her face at the basin and go to bed so that Clarke can have Lexa all to herself.

She leaves eventually, when Clarke’s teeth must surely be pearly white from being scrubbed for so long, and Anya is barely out of the room before Lexa pounces on Clarke, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up so that their bodies are flush against each other.

“Wow, somebody’s keen,” quips Clarke, tossing her toothbrush aside in the vague direction of the sink so that she has both hands free to hold Lexa’s waist.

“Shut up and fuck me, Clarke.”

Clarke has a brief moment to reflect on the fact that assertive Lexa is _hot_ , and that maybe she should ply Lexa with alcohol more often before fucking her if this is the shift in her personality, before Lexa’s lips crash down onto her own. Clarke moans into Lexa’s mouth, and then smirks in triumph against her lips when Lexa’s immediate reaction is to grab Clarke firmly around the wrist and guide her hand to the front of Lexa’s pants. If Clarke didn’t also want this so badly, she would perhaps make another comment about Lexa’s eagerness, but instead she wastes no time at all in popping open the button on Lexa’s jeans and slipping her hand down inside the denim, cupping Lexa through her thin lacy underwear.

“Lace?” Clarke pulls back far enough to raise an amused eyebrow at Lexa. “You know that you don’t have to try and impress me, Lexa.”

“Just sex, Clarke,” Lexa parrots Clarke’s words from much earlier in the day right back at her, her voice barely above a growl. “Less talking, more doing.”

“More doing what?” Clarke teases, moving her fingers in wide circles on the front of Lexa’s underwear, enough to torment the brunette without providing any real satisfaction.

“Jesus Christ, are you always this annoying? Just _fuck_ me.”

Clarke obliges, adjusting her hand in Lexa’s pants so that it slips beneath the lace. Her fingertips meet an abundant wetness, sliding with ease through Lexa’s folds and deliberately brushing across Lexa’s clit on their path to her entrance. Lexa responds by letting one of her hands fall from Clarke’s lower back to her ass, roughly squeezing the cheek in encouragement.

“Yes,” she hisses, her forehead dropping to Clarke’s shoulder. “Inside me.”

Not one to deny a pretty girl begging to be touched, Clarke slides first one finger into Lexa, feeling the vibrations of the soft groan that the other girl releases into her neck, then a second when she realises that Lexa is wet enough to take it. She moves them, slowly at first, then faster when Lexa’s repeated moaning spurs her on. Lexa wraps one arm tightly around Clarke’s neck, holding on for support, and Clarke backs her into the door, the thud of Lexa’s body against the wood coinciding with a perfectly timed swipe of Clarke’s thumb across Lexa’s clit.

The groan that spills from Lexa’s lips is just the reward Clarke needs, but the words that follow are almost enough to render Clarke as much of a wreck as Lexa is.

“If I’d known you were this good,” Lexa mumbles, the husky sound of her voice sending shivers down Clarke’s spine, “I would have let you do this to me when you offered earlier.”

Clarke swallows a groan of her own, and then, with her mouth suddenly unusually dry, she replies, “I’ve barely even touched you.”

“You barely need to,” Lexa confesses, and she finally lifts her head from Clarke’s shoulder, using the arms that she has around Clarke’s neck to pull her in for another hot kiss. It’s basically just open mouths moving against each other, an occasional swipe of tongue or clash of teeth that seems to be really doing it for Lexa. She whispers against Clarke’s mouth between kisses, “I’m so close, Clarke.”

It’s perhaps the way that Lexa says her name, a needy whine that makes it seem as if Clarke is the oxygen she needs to live, that spurs Clarke on further. Her fingers become rougher, her thumb goes back to Lexa’s little bud with insistent circles.

“Oh God, I’m going to…”

Clarke kisses Lexa through her orgasm, fingers slowing down as the fluttering of Lexa’s inner walls around them gradually becomes less powerful. Lexa sighs contentedly into Clarke’s mouth, then leans her head back against the door.

“ _Shit_.”

Clarke presses her face into Lexa’s neck, her teeth paying particular attention to the sensitive spot below Lexa’s ear, though she makes sure never to bite hard enough to leave a mark, then asks, “Is that a good ‘shit’ or a bad ‘shit’?”

Lexa slides one hand into Clarke’s mane of blonde hair, holding Clarke’s face in place against her neck, then lets the other hand glide up to rest over one of Clarke’s boobs, giving it an experimental squeeze that encourages a groan to spill from the lips against the hot skin below her ear.

“More,” Clarke whines needily, as if it hasn’t been just a few hours since the last orgasm Lexa gave her.

Lexa’s response is immediate, and she isn’t shy at all about the way that she gropes Clarke’s chest.

“It’s been three times now and I still haven’t seen these properly,” she tells Clarke as she continues to fondle the soft mounds, letting her other hand drop from where it is tangled in Clarke’ hair to slide up under the soft material of Clarke’s top, toying with the underwire of her bra. “You’re such a tease, strutting around the pool every day in a bikini that shows off their magnificence.”

“Oh, like _you_ can talk,” scoffs Clarke. “That black bikini of yours, the really skimpy one. You must know what it does to me.”

“Tell me,” rasps Lexa, her fingers dancing under the material of Clarke’s bra and brushing over an already erect nipple.

“Hmmm,” moans Clarke, losing focus for just a few seconds as her brain refuses to give attention to anything but the way that soft fingertips tauntingly roll around the hard areola. “So fucking hot. Shows off everything. You’ve got such a nice ass.”

She reiterates her point by moving a hand to Lexa’s butt and giving it a rough squeeze.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell me what else you like about me while I get you off?”

Clarke hates the fact that she can hear the smirk in Lexa’s voice almost as much as she hates the fact that she knows that she’s not going to do anything to stop herself from falling right into Lexa’s hands.

But as Lexa’s hand dips down the front of Clarke’s pants, she forgets everything about hatred at all.

* * *

Clarke chooses her outfit carefully the following morning, coming downstairs in a bikini that is just a touch too small and barely holds her cleavage in place. Bellamy’s eyes go wide when he sees her and Jasper manages to choke on his breakfast, but it’s not their reaction that Clarke is seeking.

She wanders outside, looking around for Lexa, a smug look of satisfaction already on her face for the way that Lexa’s eyes will inevitably almost pop right out of her head when she sees Clarke, not prepared at all for the way that it is she, rather than Lexa, who almost trips over her own flip flops when she spots the other girl. Because apparently two can play at this game, and Clarke actually forgets how to breathe when she spots Lexa bent over a sunlounger on the other side of the pool. _Wearing her skimpy black bikini_.

Lexa must have a sixth sense that alerts her to Clarke’s presence because no sooner has Clarke manage to pick her jaw up from the tiled poolside, does she turn and acknowledge the blonde’s presence.

It’s basically a standoff. They remain where they are for seconds that are long enough to be hours, separated by a body of water that is most likely the only thing stopping Clarke from throwing herself at the other girl and ripping both bikinis off entirely. Clarke is almost too busy staring at the lean muscles framed by two tiny scraps of fabric to notice the way that Lexa’s hungry green eyes drop to Clarke’s own cleavage, before the brunette visibly gulps and pretty much tears her eyes away from Clarke’s barely covered body.

Not even ten minutes later, Clarke finds herself kneeling on the hard patio in the shade at the side of the house, Lexa pushed up against the wall of the house next to the grill with her head thrown back and her black bikini bottoms caught haphazardly around one ankle. Clarke eats her out with enthusiasm, impressed with the way that Lexa is somehow managing to reign in the usual moans, the two of them just barely hidden from sight around the corner from where their friends play by the pool just thirty yards away.

It’s their most risky encounter so far, yet Clarke thinks that the way that Lexa’s teeth dig into her lower lip as her face screws up in pure bliss when she comes probably makes this her favourite one too.

* * *

 

Raven’s bad leg turns out to be both a blessing and a curse in Clarke’s ongoing sexual misadventures with Lexa. A blessing, because it means that once Raven has settled down by the pool and taken her brace off, she stays there for more than long enough to turn her shared room with Clarke into the perfect place to sneak away with Lexa for a quick hookup. A curse, because without Raven’s disability rendering her immobile downstairs, Bellamy most certainly would not have walked in on Lexa going down on Clarke on Raven’s bed in the middle of the afternoon.

In hindsight, it seems inevitable that in a house of nine people, somebody would have caught them in the act sooner or later.

Clarke is startled out of the bliss being brought on by Lexa’s tongue against her clit by the click of the door opening, and her eyes snap open, her thighs clamping suddenly around Lexa’s head when she sees the intruder.

“Lexa…”

Clarke pushes at Lexa’s head, urging her to stop, and it is only then, when Lexa sits up and turns around, that Bellamy notices that there are two almost naked girls on the bottom bunk.

“What the…?”

“Get out!” Clarke hisses across the room, doing her best to cover her nude form with her arms. On the bed beside her, Lexa, who at least still has her bra and panties on, reaches out for a discarded t-shirt and throws it at Clarke. Bellamy, meanwhile, his mouth hanging open like a drooling fourteen year old that has just discovered that women have breasts, remains rigid in exactly the same spot.

“But you hate her,” he splutters, and Clarke knows that his words are aimed at her.

“What part of _get out_ did you not understand?” Clarke snaps, reaching for the pillow behind her and launching it across the room at Bellamy.

Bellamy lifts one hand apologetically and claps the other over his eyes, then instead of following Clarke’s order and leaving the two girls alone to wallow in their own embarrassment, makes his way further into the bedroom.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stumbling across the room to Raven’s open suitcase, which is a mess of dirty clothes and discarded possessions. “Raven sent me up here to get her book. I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve found it. Ah, here it is!”

Bellamy’s departure from the room is almost as abrupt as his entry, and Clarke would perhaps be wondering if she imagined the whole thing, were it not for the very real blush spreading across the entirety of her naked body.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she groans, collapsing back against the mattress, the t-shirt falling from where it had been held up over her chest as she does so.

“So much for _our little secret_ , huh?” muses Lexa.

Clarke pushes herself up onto her elbows and looks at Lexa, watching the green-eyes gaze drop briefly to her still bare chest, then back up to Clarke’s face, a hint of pink tinging the other girl’s cheeks.

“It’s fine,” Clarke promises her. “It’s Bellamy, he won’t tell anybody. He understands discretion.”

“Because of him and Raven?”

Surprised, Clarke asks, “How do you know about them?”

“Clarke, I think _everybody_ knows about them,” replies Lexa. “Raven had a poorly concealed lovebite on her neck yesterday morning. I’m ruling out Octavia and Lincoln, Monty’s gay, Jasper has a girlfriend, Anya would have told me and I’m giving _you_ the benefit of the doubt.”

Clarke smirks, amused at her friends’ complete lack of discretion, before a few of Lexa’s words fully sink in.

“Wait, Anya would have told you? Does that mean you’ve told her about us?”

“Of course not,” Lexa is quick to assure Clarke. “I promised you that I wouldn’t tell anybody. What would I say to her anyway? _Oh by the way Anya, Clarke gave me a really good orgasm this morning_?”

There’s only one part of Lexa’s answer that registers in Clarke’s mind and she quirks an eyebrow at the other girl as she asks, “ _Really good_?”

“Shut up,” Lexa rolls her eyes and swats at Clarke’s bare thigh.

Clarke reaches for Lexa and pulls the brunette on top of her, slotting their legs together and letting her hands drop of Lexa’s almost naked butt. Her mouth barely an inch from Lexa’s, Clarke teases, “I’m sure I can do better than _really good_.”

“Mmm, Clarke … what about Bellamy?”

“He can wait. And he’ll make sure that nobody else disturbs us.”

* * *

Clarke doesn’t have to wait long for the inevitable interrogation from Bellamy.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with Lexa?”

Bellamy walks into the kitchen later that day as Clarke is getting herself a glass of water and leans against the countertop, his arms folded across his chest and a _we need to talk_ expression on his face. She glances around, peering through the window out into the garden just to check that nobody is around to overhear their conversation, before she answers curtly, “What did it look like was going on?”

“How long have you two been sleeping together?”

Clarke considers the question, then replies with as much nonchalance as she can muster, “A few days.”

Bellamy contemplates Clarke’s answer with a nod of his head, then follows up with, “So you actually did hate her when we first got here?”

“I _still_ hate her,” Clarke insists.

Bellamy simply raises a disbelieving eyebrow are her.

“Of course you do.”

Clarke is abruptly reminded of the time she heard those exact same words after telling Lexa that she hated her in the midst of heated kisses during their first time. She frowns and clenches the fist at her side, wondering what it is with other people not believing the extent of her dislike for the brunette girl, especially considering the amount of attention she gives to complaining about her. She think she’s made her hatred pretty obvious.

“Shut up,” Clarke tells him, leaning over to punch Bellamy softly in the arm. “Sleeping with her doesn’t mean I like her. I just means that she’s good in bed and I’m perpetually horny.”

Bellamy wrinkles up his nose at this comment, then remarks, “That’s far too much information.”

Clarke can’t help but roll her eyes.

“You can’t have a go at me for being too revealing when I was literally passed out on the couch while you and Raven had sex in the same room last month.”

It’s Bellamy’s turn to blush, and Clarke feels a brief rush of pride at finally shutting Bellamy up.

She continues, “Speaking of Raven, you also don’t really have room to lecture me when you’ve been screwing around with her for almost a year and refusing to acknowledge the fact that you’re basically in love with her.”

Bellamy recoils like he’s been punched in the face, and a flash of pain crosses his face, before it settles into a hardened frown.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t feel that way about me.”

It’s only the third time that Bellamy has vocally admitted that he actually has proper feelings for Raven, and the only time that he’s admitted it when sober. His voice is void of hope and Clarke reaches across to rest a comforting hand on his bicep, regretting her harsh words when she sees how torn up about it he actually is.

“You don’t know that,” Clarke tries to reason.

“Yes I do,” Bellamy argues, before raising his voice in a barely recognisable impression of Raven. “ _Careful Blake, or people will think you’re falling in love with me_. She said that earlier _today_ , when I offered to fetch her book.”

“Bellamy…”

“Clarke, don’t,” Bellamy shoots her a warning glare. “Anyway, this isn’t about me and Raven. We were talking about Lexa.”

“There is nothing to say about Lexa,” Clarke dismisses quickly, removing her hand from his arm and turning to busy herself with refilling her glass so that her face doesn’t give anything away to Bellamy. “It’s just sex.”

“Just sex?” Bellamy asks, his voice full of scepticism.

Clarke turns around and looks him dead in the eye, then repeats, “Just sex.”

Maybe if she says it enough, she’ll start to believe it herself.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story! Updates will be sporadic, but feel free to come and chat to me over on my tumblr (almostafantasia)!


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